Farewell My Friend:  

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Here is my special journal entry for January 10, 2005:

01.10.2005  "Farewell My Friend"
We don't know exactly when we are going to die. And therefore we don't know exactly when our loved ones are going to die either. I lost one of my loved ones on the weekend. I was not entirely surprised, but of course I was not entirely prepared. I lost one of my friends, someone I'd known for 15 years or so. He was my roommate for 7 of those years. And up until last year, I'd seen him almost every weekend. On Saturday, Jan. 8, 2005, I said good-bye to Calvin.

From my brother's voice message on Saturday afternoon, I knew things didn't look good. My stomach was jumpy when I dialed him back. Calvin was too weak to climb out of his litter box, and he was wheezing and gasping. I looked nervously outside at my snow-covered car and the white streets and I didn't feel confident. But I knew what I had to do. I told my brother: just go to the SPCA hospital and I'll meet you there. I'll be there. Just go now.

I quickly called our mother to let her know what was going on. We were both crying. We knew what was going to happen. This was it. On a normal Saturday afternoon. After I had just lounged about the house, eating my breakfast and watching "Ghost" on TV. So, this is how the story ends.

Thank goodness Robin drove me down to East Vancouver. I didn't have to ask. He just did it. He knew. On the drive down, I felt nothing. Just numb. Well, actually that's not true. I felt sick to my stomach. But I stared straight-ahead, looking through the snow-streaked windshield.

I dreaded the moment of looking at Calvin for that one last time. I played the scene over and over again in my head. Telling the vet to go ahead and give the final injection - it would be so incredibly hard. And painful. And the guilt, even though it would be for the best.

We parked the car at Clark and 7th and I ran into the waiting room. There was my brother. He was staring straight-ahead. I looked at the kitty-carrier on his lap. I knelt down and started to open the door. He told me quietly, "He didn't make it. He died on the way here." I still opened the carrier door. I needed to touch him.

He was wrapped in a white towel. The only things visible were his white paws. My brother warned me, "It's not exactly pretty....." So I didn't remove the towel in the waiting room. Instead I placed my hand on where his head was under the towel. Calvin always loved it when I scratched him behind his ears. I was almost incoherent, sobbing, when I told my brother, "I'm going to call Mom and let her know." Poor Mom. She wasn't there (due to the snow), and had to rely on my reports for what was transpiring.

The next few minutes were a blur. I told mom what had happened. Then I remember talking to the SPCA nurse at the front desk. I paid $100 for Calvin's ashes in an urn after listening to what seemed like a ridiculously long list of cremation options. Then she asked my brother and I if we wanted some time alone with Calvin.

We found ourselves in Exam Room 2. Looking back at that moment it seemed strange, almost ritualistic. But it seemed so natural at the time. Death is so normal and common yet most of us don't really give it much thought. But when the time comes, you just know what to do and how to act.

With a bit of difficulty, we got Calvin out of the carrier box. When we took the towel off to say good-bye, I wasn't shocked or horrified or disgusted. I didn't see a dead cat. I saw my friend, the family pet. I placed a hand on his belly - his once rotund, large belly that hung from his once 18-pound frame, that swung when he ran. Now in his old age it was just a bit of a Buddha-pot. And he wasn't cold yet. Thank goodness. My brother also placed his hand on Calvin too. It was just instinctual. We just wanted to let him know (or his essence, whatever) that we knew he was leaving us, that he was loved, that he wasn't alone. We didn't speak to each other; instead, we both spoke to Calvin. We said our good-byes in between wiping our eyes and blowing our noses.

Touching a dead body didn't feel weird. Or gross. Or creepy. It felt good and natural, and necessary almost - I needed to touch him one last time. His fur was still soft. He was still warm. He just wasn't moving. The last time I had seen him, there was life. And now there wasn't.

I could have stayed the whole afternoon. I could have stayed in that SPCA examination room and sat quietly with him until they closed the doors, and said my farewells. I felt so calm. But it was time to go - the snow outside was falling harder than ever. And other people needed the exam room for other things. So we covered him up with the towel again. As we went to leave, I just had to touch him one last time. I folded back the towel and scratched him again right between the ears. Whenever I did that, he used to close his eyes and lean into me. I took one last look at his familiar face. His eyes were closed. I put the towel back over his head.

Outside the hospital, I thanked my brother for taking care of Calvin over the last years. From the passenger seat in the car, I watched him walking through the snow back home, very slowly, methodically, carrying the now-empty cat carrier. He looked so sad. And I had no more tears. I was exhausted.

If I were to tell this story to some people, their response might be, "But it's just a cat!" Well, I guess I wouldn't continue the conversation with those people. They just wouldn't get it. And they never would.

I first met Calvin when he belonged to the neighbour's tenant. He was the peculiar, little black and white kitty who was pretty much neglected. As a result, he would come next door to our house and we would give him table scraps and bits of processed cheese. When I heard the tenant was moving away, the natural thing seemed for Calvin to stay with us. I spoke to the tenant, and he was most agreeable to the suggestion. And so it was.

Calvin was there for my 19th birthday. I would see him every day when I got home from university. I used to watch him in the backyard as he chased butterflies and hid in the bushes and ambushed dragonflies. I remember his first experience with snow (shock and confusion), and I consoled him during thunder storms (as he hid under my bed). I bathed him and brushed him. He licked me and snuggled with me.

I watched him grow from a nervous, silly kitten to a robust, 18-pound cat. In the beginning, I remember hearing the familiar howls and screams as he tangled with the large, orange tomcat who lived behind us (Tiger, I think his name was). But then one day Calvin came strolling back into the kitchen - he wasn't cowering or fleeing for his life. This time, he was victorious. And no other cat won another fight against him after that day.

When I moved out, I still visited the house every weekend. He became a little aloof (cats will do that if they're annoyed at you for leaving them), but I still hugged and kissed him every chance I got. And every Christmas Eve when I slept over at my mom's house in my old bedroom, I would hear the familiar scratching at the door on Christmas morning. I would open it, and my dear old friend would saunter in like old times and hop on to the bed with me. He'd nestle his warm body between my knees and I would be comforted by his heavy purring. All was forgiven. But then I would leave again, only to return a week later for my regular Sunday visits.

When my mother decided to sell the house last year, the topic of Calvin was on everyone's mind. Where would he go? Won't he miss the backyard? How will he adjust to new surroundings? Since my brother had taken over as primary caregiver since I moved out, it made sense for Calvin to move in with him to his new condo in East Van. Calvin was getting old, and it would probably be best for him to become an indoor cat. Safer. Less disease, less cars, etc.

In his old age, Calvin became more eccentric and particular. He refused to drink tap water, and only sipped on bottled water. And later on, he developed a taste for rainwater which my brother had to collect in little trays on his patio. Furthermore, he refused to dine without dinner companions. In other words, he would only eat if my brother stood nearby. He was definitely an old man cat now.

I would visit Calvin once every couple of weeks or so at my brother's new place. I would see him sitting on his easy-chair and I'd scoop him up and shower him with attention. He'd squirm and fuss, but I wouldn't let him go. Eventually, he would relax and enjoy the petting, as his tail would slowly swish from side to side. Just like old times.

When we got home from the SPCA hospital on Saturday, I felt so drained. I realized I could either mope around the rest of the day, or I could continue on with my weekend chores. As I picked up my feather-duster, I decided on the latter.

I still have some pictures of Calvin up at home. As I was dusting them, I looked at them but didn't burst into tears. They're just pictures of my friend - perched on the windowsill, hiding in the flowers, sunbathing on the sun deck. Just how I remember him.

Rest in peace, Calvin. I know you're up there, enjoying that big, backyard up in the sky, chasing butterflies and lying in the sun....

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